


Nine Million Green Bottles

by Marlinspirkhall



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Poetry, Singing, Torture, Vulcan Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlinspirkhall/pseuds/Marlinspirkhall
Summary: Trapped in adjoining cells, Jim and Spock comfort (and sing)  to each other as they await rescue."If he is not mistaken, his head is currently residing on Jim's lap. A great many things factor into this analysis. First; Jim's hand is still in his hair. Second, a vague, beige blob- which he's 97% certain is Jim's face- ebbs in and out of his vision. At present, it is upside down and blurry, but nevertheless, a very nice face."
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 44
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Original Series often has the characters sing or play music to create a sense of unease, especially in "The Way To Eden" and "Plato's Stepchildren", so I thought I'd try my hand at creating something with a similar atmosphere.

Against all odds, the prisoner in the neighbouring cell has started singing.

"There are _n_ _ine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine green_ _bottles-_ sitting on the wall..."

Spock raises his head. "Captain?"

" _Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine green bottles,_ sitting on the wall..."

He frowns, and there's a soft clink of chains as he repositions himself against the hard stone. The wall between them is not, of course, adorned by _any_ bottles, let alone 9,999,999 of them; it would not have the space for it. The smallest break in the brick- a metal grate- allows some sound to pass through. Earlier, it allowed a watery approximation of Kirk's screams and pleas to pass, and now- perhaps more worrying than the screams or the subsequent silence- his song.

"And if one green bottle should accidentally fall, there'll be _nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight_ green bottles, sitting on the wall."

Kirk's voice trembles, and Spock can hear the slightest stutter; a sharp inhalation of breath. Then, the song begins anew, and his voice grows in strength, a stubbornness creeps in. By the time he reaches the chorus again, he appears to be holding back laughter.

"... there'll be _nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven_ green bottles, sitting on the wall."

Spock closes his eyes, and listens to the laughter for a moment, breathy and pained, as Kirk stifles a sob.

He winds his hands around the shackles that enclose his wrists, and inhales deeply. After a moment, he closes his eyes, and picks up the tune, simple as it is.

"- _nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven_ green bottles, sitting on the wall-"

He hears the sobbing cease behind him.

" _Nine_ _million, nine hundred, ninety nine_ _thousand-_ _"_

" _Spock_ ," exclaims the small voice, and he can hear the smile in it.

"- sitting on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally fall-"

And, really, the odds of it happening with such frequency are so small that Spock suspects someone must be pushing them off, one by one-

"- there'll be _nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety six_ green bottles, sitting on the wall."

Jim laughs again, makes some fond comment at Spock's expense, but he doesn't mind. He keeps singing, ignoring the playful taunt, for, as long as it offers Jim comfort, it cannot be illogical.

"... _nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety_ _four_ green bottles, sitting on the wall." He hesitates, and releases the chains, letting his hands go slack.

The silence crashes down abruptly, almost as if that fifth green bottle _had_ hit the floor.

"Why'd you stop?"

Spock turns, presses his cheek against the wall, almost as if he can feel Jim behind it.

Almost.

He inhales. "Do you know how long it would take to sing Nine Million Green Bottles?" He allows amusement to creep into his voice.

"Well, I guess... At least nine million minutes," Jim admits, with no understanding of how long that is.

"Due to the dual repetition of the first stanza, the song takes long enough to sing when only ten green bottles are present a rudimentary attempt to teach young human children the basics of counting. The _very_ basics," he says aloud.

Jim manages a small laugh. "I didn't think you'd be familiar with it."

... _T_ _here'll be_ _ni_ _ne_ _million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety_ _two green bottles, sitting on a wall._

When the song refers to only tens and units, it takes fifteen seconds to sing one complete round. Amanda often initiated the song when he and Michael were younger, although he suspects it was more for his benefit than his sister's. Indeed, before today, 'Ten Green Bottles' is the only version he has heard-

"Spock? You still there?"

"Yes, Jim. I was contemplating the... Uniqueness of this particular variation."

A slight groan, which morphs into a chuckle. "We used to sing it in the academy, on nights out, when we were pissed. Gary Mitchell started it one night, staggering around; started at nine hundred. He used to stack our empty bottles on the wall and see how high they could stack without falling over. I'm pretty sure that's what the song was referring to."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Fascinating. I was unaware of this connotation."

"Yeah, well, green beer bottles aren't exactly common on Vulcan," Jim says. "Unless there's an underground speakeasy that you haven't told me about."

"I was attempting to keep it a secret," Spock says, deadpan.

Jim erupts into a fit of coughing, and Spock tenses. Unable to see or touch him, it's impossible to ascertain his condition.

"Jim-?"

"I'm- fine, Spock," he says, winded. "Just don't... Make me laugh."

He catches his breath, while Spock gazes at the wall opposite.

 _N_ _i_ _ne_ _million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty_ _eight_ _green bottle_ s.

"It would take seven point six years to sing the song in its entirety."

"Eight years, huh?" Jim wheezes, after a moment. "In that case, I suppose we'd better hope we don't remain here long enough to finish it," he coughs again, and this round sounds more painful than the first.

"What is wrong, Jim?" He asks. _What have they done to you?_

"Doesn't matter," Jim wheezes. "There's nothing you can do right now."

"Perhaps not; but when Lieutenant Sulu returns, I can have him relay your symptoms to Doctor McCoy." From what little they could ascertain before Sulu was dragged off, McCoy is sitting two cells down, and Uhura, a further three. Stripped of their communicators, they can only hope that the team who were left on the _Enterprise_ \- Mr Scott, Chekhov and Hendorff- find them before they endure further damage.

"There's nothing _he_ can do, either." Jim's voice is strained.

"He could instruct you on how best to-"

"My hands are chained," Jim says. "Just..."

 _Ni_ _ne million, nine hundred,_ _ninety-nine_ _thousand, nine hundred and_ _eighty-_ _seven_ _g_ _reen_ _bottles_ _._

"... Keep talking," he murmurs. "Keep me awake."

Spock hesitates. "Given what you have endured, you would benefit from sleep-"

"- Keep singing, then," Jim pleads, voice suddenly small. "Keep me _sane._ "

Spock settles. "Very well. Although, I doubt _Nine Million Green Bottles_ is best-suited for that purpose."

The smile in Jim's voice returns. "Then I defer to your good judgement, Mr Spock."

By his estimation, the traditional variant of the children's song takes 2.5 minutes to sing, and that's with a mere fraction of the nine million mark laid out by Jim. Compared to Vulcans, Humans have a relatively poor understanding of time, and he wonders if that's what drove Kirk to choose such a high number. It is likely that Kirk chose it in the hopes that their captivity would not be long enough to get through all 39,999,996 verses of it, perhaps without realising that it would take 7.6 years of non-stop singing to get through the whole thing.

Privately, Spock doubts he could get as far as even 9,800,000 bottles before his voice runs out, so he chooses a different song, another which his mother sang to him. She had not known many Vulcan lullabies, and this was no different. Nevertheless, he sings it, now, in Vulcan, and remembers her clumsy, yet endearing, English translation.

 _"Hear the_ _Sehlat's_ _lullaby_  
 _Hear the_ _Sehlat's_ _cries_  
 _Lonely is the_ _Sehlat_

 _"Hear the_ _Sehlat's_ _melody_  
 _Amid desert sands_  
 _Lonely is the_ _Sehlat_ _"_

He settles as much as he can, despite the heavy chains, and continues.

 _"She has walked a long way_  
 _Across desert sands_  
 _Tired is the_ _Sehlat_

 _"She lies down for shelter_  
 _In a mighty cave_  
 _Tired is the_ _Sehlat_

 _"Here is her companion_  
 _Here are her cubs_  
 _Lying with the_ _Sehlat_

_"When the dawn has broken_   
_You can see their tracks_   
_Journeying beside her_

_"Where the sand is broken_  
 _You can see them dance_  
 _Family, has the_ _Sehlat_ _."_

Once finished, he relays the translation to Jim. An echo of a chuckle slips through the bars.

"A lullaby, Mr Spock?"

  
"I assure you, Captain; I had no ulterior motive."

"I'm sure," Jim says, a smile in his voice. He falls silent after that.

_Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five green bottles, sitting on the wall._

*

[The Sehlat's Lullaby, Poem [Tumblr ]](https://marlinspirkhall.tumblr.com/post/190553523290/the-sehlats-lullaby)


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours and seventy-five green bottles later, a cell door opens. Spock tenses.

They have come, once again, for the Captain.

Sulu has not been returned to his cell.

"Ah, you again..." Jim's voice is so quiet that it Spock has to sit very still to catch it. "Nice to see a familar face."

The Iclixi guard clatters at him. "Are you ready to be more cooperative, Captain?"

For a moment, Spock wonders if he's missed the reply, but it comes belatedly, just as soft as before.

"Certainly. Just as soon as you release my crew."

There's that clicking sound again. "That will not be possible, Captain (...)"

Whatever is said next gets lost in a series of clatters. Jim stifles a small, wounded noise. It's almost a whimper. Spock exhales, and places his head back against the wall, pointed ear turned just enough to catch-

"- 're lying."

"Did I not promise to rend them, limb from limb, unless you complied?"

What happens next is hard to discern. There's a scuffle, a skittering sound, and Jim cries out.

"Now, Captain. You will tell me the reactivation sequence for the transporter pad, or I'll do the same to your Vulcan friend next door."

A grunt. "The transporter pad is a wreck. It'll take more than a reactivation code to get it up and running again."

"Then there's no harm in giving me what I want."

Jim groans, weakly. "The Federation doesn't negotiate with-" he chokes back a yelp, as the air fills with a hollow, insectoid buzzing.

Spock closes his eyes, and continues to recount the song in his head.

_Nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ten green bottles, sitting on a-_

A shriek fills the air, followed by a round of deep, shuddering gasps. The Captain says something-

_Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ten green bottles, sitting on a wall._

\- which descends into a wave of shouting, as the Iclixi shouts to be heard over Jim.

"My people will _destroy_ the Aclaxi, Captain, and then we will take our place, _alone,_ in the Federation-"

 _A_ _nd if one green bottle should_ _accidentally_ -

"- Your species are near-identical, why can't you see that? You have more in common with the Aclaxi than you pretend. You _must_ work out a treaty among yourselves-"

"We will _never_ sign a treaty with the filthy Aclaxi!"

"And the Federation will never accept a government that commits genocide!"

"So be it, Captain. If the Federation would have us ally with reptiles, we do not wish to join."

_\- sitting on the wall. Nine_ _million-_

"AHHH-"

_\- thousand... Ninety_ _nine-_

There's a snapping sound, and a sickening scream.

Spock's eyes snap open.

"Captain." He twists violently, tries to turn his hands. To place them against the wall, absorb some of the pain, but he only succeeds in hurting his own wrists. He can _sense_ , with a burning, intense certainty, that the Captain is directly behind him. If he could just reach out; offer some comfort-

" _Jim_ ," he calls.

The screaming falters.

"Spock-"

And continues.

"Spock..."

And falters.

"... They killed-"

There's a wet sound. A _crunch_.

Jim descends into screams again. Spock's chest is tight, gripped by the unnatural urge to curl in on himself.

Gradually, the sound morphs into a strangled moan, and tapers off.

He knows this is only a brief reprise. The Iclixi needs time to allow their venom to regenerate, but it won't take long, and all the while, the poison which they've already injected him with is doing its work.

"Jim," Spock murmurs, too soft to be heard. He sits in silence for a moment, and listens to the pained gasps behind him.

It occurs to him that there _is_ something he can do to help. Voice shaking, he begins to sing anew.

_"There are nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine_ _hundred-_ _"_

A shaky laugh.

_"- sitting on the wall. Nine_ _million-_ _"_

"Leave him alone," Jim hisses.

"You will be _silent_."

The door to Jim's cell opens.

_"- and eight green bottles, sitting on a-"_

Spock's door is thrown against the-

 _"- wall."_ His voice echoes in the cramped space, filled by the steady scuffle of six feet. The Iclixi crosses the distance between them with remarkable speed, and comes to a halt before Spock.

"You will be silent," they demand.

Spock's gaze is drawn to the Iclixi's pincers, which are slick with red blood. He narrows his eyes. The Iclixi bleed yellow.

He glances to the grate which separates himself and Jim. "The mistreatment of prisoners is punishable by galactic law," he says, more calmly than he feels.

The Iclixi considers him for a moment, then strikes him across the face. His cheek smarts, but the pain is manageable. Iclixi aren't much stronger than humans, not quite a match for Vulcans; which is perhaps why he's been left alone until now.

Spock fixes the Iclixi with steady eyes. "If you were trying to make a good impression for the Federation-" his breath hitches as something pierces his right arm. Dizzy, he glances down.

He hadn't noticed the Iclixi's stinger, poised to attack. He breathes through the pain, almost fascinated, and watches as the stinger is withdrawn.

 _There is no pain,_ he assures himself, as his arm begins to seep green liquid.

"... ck?" Jim's voice, far away.

_There is no pain._

He turns his head toward the sound, and inhales.

_There is no pain._

"I am... Adequate, Captain." He's winded, and it shows in his voice.

There's a pause, followed by a short, wavering note, as James picks up the tune where Spock left off. " _Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and six green bottles, sitting on a_ _wall-_ _"_

"Sihymiyexen, bring the human in here," the Iclixi snaps.

A low voice, in the corridor. "Sire."

_"Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and six green bottles, sitting on a wall..."_

Spock looks up at his captor. The insect's features swim in and out of view. Dark, expressionless eyes. Mandibles parted in a wide snarl. Distantly, he remembers that the Iclixi were once a prey species. Their venom incapacitates, but does not kill. Somehow, this is not reassuring.

His arm begins to twitch.

"- _ne_ _green bottle should_ _accidentally-_ " The cell opens. Jim attempts to roll as he's thrown against the floor, but he lands on his arm at an angle. He cries out. "Spock-" he scrambles to face him, but Sihymiyexen holds him down. "Are you alright?"

Spock inclines his head, his breathing tight and uneven, and attempts to gain control of his arm. _I am a Vulcan. Pain is of the mind. It can be_ _controll_ _-_

His fingers spasm.

Sihymiyexen restrains The Captain easily enough, and the other Iclixi bends to examine him.

"You continue to test my patience, Captain," they click. Jim flinches away, but they paw at his cheek. He hisses. The claws catch at broken skin. "Now, we shall test yours."

Their tail flicks out, and rakes across Spock's side. Without turning to look, the Iclixi pushes their stinger into Spock's other arm, and retracts it.

The spasm turns into a shudder.

Jim's eyes widen.

"I... am alright, Captain," Spock lies. He locks eyes with him. _Choose a focus point. Clear your mind. There is no-_

The Iclixi's sting jabs once, twice, into each of his legs, and Spock clenches his jaw shut. He _just_ manages to keep from crying out.

_Control._

He's not certain if the creature has any venom left until the process starts again. Nerves tingling, he tries, in vain, to prevent the twitch of muscle.

_Control._

His body is racked by small, short gasps. He draws his knees to his chest and curls in on himself as much as he can. For a moment, it works, and he's grasped by an eery sense of calm.

Then, he convulses.

"Spock!" He's distantly aware of the Captain struggling, but his voice sounds as if it's coming from underwater.

He loses control of his arms first, although, in the chains, they have nowhere to go. Then a leg. Then the other. His torso jumps once the venom reaches it, and he's a Vulcan, he should be able to control this, but it's taking all his strength to keep from writhing.

Pain is of the mind, but every part of his body is screaming.

_Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and two green bottles._

Someone holds him as he convulses, and touches their hand to his forehead. The brush of their mind is warm, and familiar, and, and- _Jim._ He tries to get his body under control, and his foot connects with the Captain's leg. He tries to apologise, but Jim shushes him and strokes his hair. He doubts he could have got the words out anyway.

_Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety seven green bottles._

The spasms are getting more and more infrequent, and he's shivering now, more violently than he ever has from temperature or terror. Not that Vulcans would ever shake in terror.

 _Nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety six green bottle_ s.

If he is not mistaken, his head is currently residing on Jim's lap. A great many things factor into this analysis. First; Jim's hand is still in his hair. Second, a vague, beige blob- which he's 97% certain is Jim's face, ebbs in and out of his vision. At present, it is upside down and blurry, but nevertheless, a very nice face.

_Ni_ _ne million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety five green bottle_ s.

Third; his thighs are surely more comfortable than the cell floor. He doesn't quite remember _how_ he got out of the chains that were holding him in the first place, but he is certain that he's reclining now, as much as one can _recline_ when their body keeps jolting.

_And if one green bottle should_ _accidentally-_

He should not be so quick to rule out the possibility that the cell floor is abnormally comfortable, although all evidence so far would suggest otherwise. On the other hand, he has never rested his head in the Captain's lap before, so he cannot be sure what that feels like. He tries to recall any other time when he has been held like this, for comparison. He is unable to.

_N_ _ine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety four green bottle_ s.

The final explanation, of course, is that he's hallucinating. He tries to remember what they injected him with and why, but- as he can't even remember _who_ injected him and _when_ , he doubts he could recall if the poison has hallucinogenic properties. He closes his eyes.

_There'll be nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety three green bottles, sitting on the wall._

He's sure he'll stop hallucinating soon.

_And if one green bottle should accidentally-_

When the man removes his hand, Spock loses all sense of reality, and struggles. A hand catches his wrist, and-

"Spock, Spock! It's me. Shhh. Calm down." A thumb strokes his wrist.

The Captain, of course-

"I need to make bandages. Hold still."

\- But then the skin to skin contact is gone again, and Spock grows restless. Tries to pull himself off the floor, until strong arms pull him back. The man places a hand on his cheek.

"Damn you, Spock, I'm trying to keep you alive. The bleeding hasn't stopped with you like it did with me."

Bleeding? Stopped? Alive? Before he can make sense of it, the hands retract once more, and there's the sound of tearing fabric. Spock growls, and pushes himself up on his arms. It's excruciating, so he falls back down immediately, and there's a sudden pressure on his right arm. He thrashes, and tries to fight it, but Jim takes hold of his wrist again, and the world crashes back into sudden, blinding focus.

"Spock." Jim raises Spock's hand to his face, and places it against his jaw. "Touch telepathy, correct?"

Spock nods, although he's not sure what he's agreeing with, and the hand around his wrist lets go. Instinctively, he lifts his hand to explore Jim's face, and flattens his palm against his cheek. Though his vision is still obscured, he thinks he sees- _feels_ \- him lean into it.

_Sitting on a wall; nine million, nine hundred, ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and eighty green bottles._


End file.
